For even as Moran brought his right hand to the stock of his rifle, and settled into his aim, my faltering trigger-finger got a fit of the shakes; my aim wavered, and I paused, sweating - and in that moment I learned that, old as I was, I was a better shikari than Moran would ever be.

Then, ibn Wahshiyah showed up tangled up in Yeats' imagery in A Vision, although I have to admit that by this time I and my faithful shikari Google had been back-tracking ibn Wahshiyah, not wishing to fall victim to his snares once again.